


I wanna thank you with all a' my heart.

by LT_Aldo_Raine



Series: I Never Really Loved the Song Until I Heard You Sing [1]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Canon Compliant, Longing, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Post-War, Pre-Slash, Returning Home, Seaside, Songfic, but also slashy if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 21:40:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13443954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LT_Aldo_Raine/pseuds/LT_Aldo_Raine
Summary: The war is over, and as the boys of Easy Company prepare to head home, Babe Heffron and Gene Roe find themselves standing alone in an English shipyard. When the conversation takes an emotional turn, Babe finds himself wanting things he knows he can't have.OR: “That day that Welsh got hit...I didn't even hear 'im. Didn't hear Winters hollerin', or nothin'. I was...” Gene's dark eyes flickered back and forth across the horizon, and Babe watched the gentle medic try to piece together the thoughts in his mind, try to string along the right words to say. Finally, Gene's brow furrowed and he said, simply, “He would'a died, Babe. Harry would'a died if you hadn't come got me out that hole.”When Gene looked at him, Babe felt like Gene had just laid the burden of the whole damn world across his shoulders. The weight of that look pierced him right to his very core. Drowning in Gene's dark gaze, Babe barely heard Gene's next words, “You saved me, Babe.”





	I wanna thank you with all a' my heart.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first songfic! 
> 
> I'm a little floored that I was inspired by a Miley Cyrus song--I'm not her biggest fan, but ya know, these things happen. This story will be the first in a series of BabeRoe songfics. Exciting, I know. I hope y'all enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
> Malibu - Miley Cyrus
> 
> I never came to the beach or stood by the ocean  
> I never sat by the shore under the sun with my feet in the sand  
> But you brought me here and I'm happy that you did  
> 'Cause now I'm as free as birds catching the wind  
> ///  
> Sometimes I feel like I'm drowning and you're there to save me  
> And I wanna thank you with all of my heart  
> It's a brand new start  
> A dream come true  
> In Malibu

Growing up, Babe Heffron had been to the ocean a lot. Philly was only about a two hour drive from the Jersey Shore, so every summer his pop drove their family to the coast where they would all rent a room at a cottage near Bradley Beach. The Heffrons would spend a week walking the pebbly beaches, cooking meals in the small group kitchen of the boarding house, swimming in the cool ocean water, and playing games along the boardwalk.

As a gangly kid fooling around on the Jersey Shore, Babe never would have guessed that he would one day see the Atlantic from the other side.

Standing on a dock in an English shipyard, Babe gazed toward the horizon where America—where Philadelphia, where _home—_ waited. 

“Can almost see it.”

Babe didn't start as the quiet, unassuming voice fell on his ears. Doc Roe appeared beside him, his black hair curling in little tuffs around his ears, a cigarette between his fingers. The cold of Bastogne had never really left the medic—his nose still glowed a little red on the tip, the tops of his ears stayed a touch pink—, but Babe had to acknowledge that Gene looked better than he had in months. The two week journey back to England had been long and arduous, but without the threat of enemy gunfire and with the knowledge that home was waiting just across the water, life had begun to fill Gene's eyes once again. He smiled a little more and worried a little less—and Babe was happy for him.

Babe must have been staring because when Gene shifted to look at him, it was with an expectant gaze. Babe blinked, forced himself to inquire. “What's that?”

The corner of Gene's mouth twitched. He extended the burning cigarette, which Babe took and lifted to his lips, taking a long, slow drag as his eyes drifted back out over the ocean. Gene's gaze—which always seemed weighted, important—tracked Babe's movements: his long, pale fingers; his full lips, wrapped around the cigarette mere spaces from the flaming embers; the slope of his pale, freckled nose and cheeks. Gene turned from the redhead, back to the water and the sun fading along the horizon, and nodded. “Home,” Gene clarified. “You can almost see home from here.”

Babe smirked, narrowing his eyes into the distance. “Yeah, ya know, now that you mention it, I think I see ole Lady Liberty herself over there.” He took another smoke and flicked the ashes off the tip of the cigarette before he passed it back to Gene. “What're you gonna do when you get back to the swamp, huh, Gene?”

A thoughtful shadow crossed Gene's pale face. When he spoke, he looked younger and more wistful than Babe had seen yet. “I'm gone eat.” A loud, boisterous laugh escaped Babe, and Gene gave a slick little grin. “Laugh all you want, Heffron. You ain't ever had no food like my momma an' daddy make. M'gone have a big ole crawfish boil—potatoes, corn, gumbo, the works.”

“Crawfish? What the hell is a crawfish?”

Gene laughed. It was a light, genuine sound, and it made a warmth bloom and spread across Babe's chest. The Cajun took a slow drag on the dwindling cigarette. Babe watched the embers burn, gaze flickering a touch too frequently to Gene's thin, purple lips and the gentle circle they formed around the flaming drag. A puff of smoke released when Gene replied. “Crawfish...they're sorta like a cross between a lobster and a shrimp, and they come from freshwater. They boil up real good and juicy.”

Somewhere above, a seagull cried. Behind Gene and Babe, a gaggle of troopers emerged from the mess hall, a barrel of laughs and volley of shouts.

“You should come.”

Babe leaned against the railing of the dock, his long limbs dangling over the water. He watched the gentle waves lapping against the dock's wooden support beams. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Come to your crallfish boil?”

The medic gave a wry grin. “ _Craw_ fish,” he corrected. “After the war...you should come to Bayou Chene, s'where I'm from. It, uh, it ain't much—mostly live oak trees and 'gators, but the people are real decent and the music'll have you movin', that's fo' sure.”

Visions of Gene twirling some gal in a light yellow dress across the swamp, alligators nipping at their heels, brought a soft smile to Babe's face. Back home, Gene Roe was bound to be a charmer—of that, Babe was sure. “That sounds nice, Gene.”

“You could-” Gene swallowed hesitantly and refused to meet Babe's gaze. “You could meet my folks. I know my paw would love to thank you.”

“Thank me? For what?”

“That day that Welsh got hit...” Gene began, and suddenly, they were both _there_ —both back in those frozen, hellish woods; back amid the snow and tall pines that exploded into giant splinters from Kraut artillery; back in Bastonge. “I didn't even hear 'im. Didn't hear Winters hollerin', or nothin'. I was...” Gene's gaze looked all far away, like he was seeing back in time to a place that no trooper would ever want to revisit but would never be able to escape, all the same. His dark eyes flickered back and forth across the horizon, and Babe watched the gentle medic try to piece together the thoughts in his mind, try to string along the right words to say. Finally, Gene's brow furrowed and he said, simply, “He would'a died, Babe. Harry would'a died if you hadn't come got me out that hole.”

When Gene looked at him, Babe felt like Gene had just laid the burden of the whole damn world across his shoulders. The weight of that look pierced him right to his very core. Drowning in Gene's dark gaze, Babe barely heard Gene's next words, “You saved me, Babe.”

Licking his lips nervously, Babe corrected the medic. “Harry, you mean. I saved Harry 'cause I came and got ya.”

Gene nodded seriously, lips slightly parted in thought, brow still scrunched just a touch. “That, too,” he said quietly. His hand tightened on the railing, like he was keeping himself from reaching out to Babe. “M'serious...I was...there was this nurse near the Bois Jacques and...” A shuddering breath took Gene moments before he steeled himself and found Babe's eyes with a profound, resolved look. “I was lost, Babe. Bastogne took me, like it took all a' us. But you brought me back, and-” Gene made a thoughtful noise. “-I wanna thank you, Babe, with all a' my heart. I'm real grateful fo' what you did.”

The dock was quiet around them, save for the occasional cry of a seagull or the distant rumble of a Jeep. Most of the other Easy boys were still chowing down in the mess, and as the sky began to fade from blue to black, Babe found himself standing alone with Doc Roe. And it was one of those moments—the kind of moment where everything is being said but there are no words at all—the kind of moment that Babe Heffron, the Southside's resident loud-mouth, never thought that he would have.

There were emotions—visceral and real—clawing their way up Babe's throat, desperate to spill out of his mouth and into the seaside air. But Babe swallowed, _hard,_ and tried to smile, and mumbled, “Ya don't gotta thank me, Gene.” 

A soft smile, an easy smile, curved Gene's lips. The weight of the moment seemed gone. The medic flicked his cigarette—long burnt out—into the ocean. “Sure, I do, Babe. Sure, I do.” 

He turned from the redhead, then, and beat a slow retreat back to the mess hall. Gene wasn't twenty feet away when he hollered over his shoulder to Babe and the seagulls circling above, “My offer still stands, Heffron. You ever wanna see what life's like in the swamp, you just come on down. My folks'd love to have you.” 

Babe didn't want him to leave. He wanted Gene to stay and talk to him in that slow, Southern drawl accented just so with a touch of Gene's Cajun roots. He wanted to watch Gene's hands as he tapped his fingers and fiddled with a deck of cards because the medic was incapable of holding still. He wanted to stare at Gene's purple lips as he sung old Bible hymns under his breath when he thought no one could hear. He wanted to hug Gene—to hold him and feel the pulse of life beat a hearty rhythm inside the man who single-handedly saved more Toccoa men (and Replacements like himself) than any other man in the outfit—except for maybe Major Winters. He wanted Gene. 

But it was 1945, and Babe didn't quite know how to articulate the great swirl of emotions inside him. Didn't know what to say or how to say it. So, he said nothing and watched Gene disappear into a network of tents on the east side of the shipyard. 

And Babe stood alone by the ocean and felt the warmth seep into him from where Gene used to be. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Open to requests for BabeRoe (and maybe others..?!) songfics!


End file.
